


Unladylike

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Bathroom Sex, F/F, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Romance, Sexual Identity, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-15
Updated: 2004-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:05:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gryffindor Keeper gets to know the new Slytherin Chaser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unladylike

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Pornish Pixies community on LJ. Challenge: _Femmeslash_

Rolanda Hooch does not walk like a young lady.

That's the first thing that pops into Minerva's head when the little foxy-haired girl comes stomping into the bathroom on Friday afternoon, dusty and windswept, kitted out in green and silver Quidditch gear and cursing a blue streak under her breath. And Minerva blushes, not at the salty language, but at the thought, which is terribly prim and prudish and utterly her mother's.

There's a brief moment in which both girls pause. The water runs over Minerva's hands, turning grey as it swirls down the drain, mixed with spilled ink from a snapped quill. To her amusement, Rolanda looks wary, perhaps uncertain of her welcome the day before the first match of the season, as though Minerva's playing Keeper for the girls' lav now. Or perhaps she's rueful that Slytherin hijacked the pitch from Gryffindor today, on the grounds of breaking in their new player.

...and broken in they have, Minerva observes, pursing her lips at a livid bruise on Rolanda's cheek.

It puts her in mind of her manners, and she manages a smile before turning back to the sink. She watches in the mirror as Rolanda makes her way to the next washstand over, lean hips bordering on a swagger.

_Really_, she thinks.

It's a silly thing to harp on; it certainly shouldn't draw her eye so. After all, she knows better than anyone how difficult it is to step ladylike after two hours on a broom. But there's something about Rolanda Hooch that makes it hard to look away, something that that has nothing to do with the fuss she kicked up in September. It's her face, her body, the way she moves. There's a certain boyishness about her, strangely elusive—small things that Minerva wouldn't find at all appealing on a real boy, but on Rolanda are strangely charming.

Her walk is just one more thing that makes Minerva...consider.

She thinks back to the day her elder cousin taught her the trick of walking like a woman. Not last Christmas but the one before, just after she herself had made her house team and her mother had despaired of ever making lady of her. Daphne had been over for the day while their parents had a visit. Pretty Daphne, seeming so sophisticated at seventeen with her violet robes with the ivory trim and sleek blonde hair caught in a fancy twist.

Softly chiding where Minerva's mother scolded: _You're a grown-up girl now—you cannae go running about like a mad thing all the time._

Smelling sweetly of lilac scent when she'd come up behind Minerva, pulling her back against her. One arm across Minerva's hips, the other across the place that had only recently become her bosom instead of just her chest.

Murmuring, _Straighten up, now. You step...and your hips move like this. You step...like this._

Just like that. Daphne had walked her across the room as though she were a toddling infant. Only ten or twelve steps, but it had been perfectly thrilling and embarrassing all at once. Of course, out of pride, Minerva had pretended not care one way or the other—and made a point of slouching for the rest of the day—but after Daphne had gone home, she'd practised alone in her room, posing for her looking glass. Head up, shoulders back, hips swaying just a little.

The memory teases her lips into a smile, one that broadens when she glances over at Rolanda splashing water on her face. She suspects that anyone who tried teaching Miss Hooch to walk like a lady would likely find themselves bitten for their trouble. Barely two months into the term and Rolanda only a fourth year, but everybody in school already knows that she's wild as a pixie. The first girl to make the Slytherin team in fifty years, the girl who raised holy hell all the way up to Professor Dippet to get this year's Chaser spot in place of cross-eyed Hadrian Smythe who can't throw for beans and was only in line for it because his elder brother had been the one to leave the position open.

The boys all think she's a terror and the girls a hopeless show-off, and that alone would be enough to make Minerva look kindly upon her, Slytherin or not. But there's something else. Something that makes her stare despite herself, something that makes her shiver each time she catches the girl looking at her across the Great Hall.

It's this something that makes Minerva linger even after her hands are clean. She takes her time drying them on the hand towel and then hesitates for a moment before gathering her nerve around herself like a cloak and leaning back against the sink. She crosses her arms and examines Rolanda boldly, bolstering herself with the assurance that frankness is entirely her prerogative as a prefect, as a sixth year, as a Gryffindor.

_Strange little thing_, she thinks, almost fondly, as those amber eyes flicker her way.

Those eyes.

They first caught Minerva's notice at the end of last year, peeking out from behind the stands—what she'd thought was just another Slytherin spy sneaking about, watching the Gryffindors at practice. She'd chased her off a time or two and now feels a little sorry about it.

She looks Rolanda up and down in an attempt to take some measure of the sum and its parts.

She isn't pretty. Not exactly. She seems a sensible sort, not the kind to waste an hour primping herself every morning. She has the sort of sharp, stubborn face that might be called 'handsome' at home, like Minerva's own. But she has a wicked smile, and yes, those eyes. Like a harpy's, some might say, and from what Minerva knows of the family, that could well be the case. Foreigners. But with that trim figure and long nose, she's put more in mind of a hawk, smooth and shrewd, and attractive in a hopelessly exotic way.

And just as good a flyer, as she'd had cause to note, covertly observing the Slytherin try-outs from beneath the stands with her teammates.

Rolanda's gaze flits over to her again, but there's little snap to it. She looks more curious than hostile. Then she's back to looking in the mirror, pulling aside the neck of her robe to peer at a darkening welt on her shoulder.

Minerva hisses. What did they do, lob a bludger at her? The imprint looks more like the bat, for Merlin's sake. "You'll want to have Madam Wiggins take a look at that."

It earns her a glare, but she meets it squarely. Colour floods Rolanda's cheeks, which makes Minerva's chest tighten for reasons she can't exactly put her finger on.

Rolanda's the first to look away, muttering, "They're bloody tossers."

The rims of her eyes are pink. Not from tears, though. If Minerva thought that, she'd have lost a great deal of pity for her—she can't stand soppy girls. But it's been a windy day, and the way Rolanda rubs at her eyes looks more irritated than ashamed.

She glances back at the door, thinking of Patsy and Gideon still in the library. Are they wondering what's keeping her? More likely they're savouring the break until she comes back to pester them into working. She finds herself not wanting to leave just yet.

She hops up so that she's perched on the broad edge of the sink. Her hands are restless, and she folds them in her lap, recalling her own first Quidditch practice—it hadn't left bruises, but she remembers every joke about seeing up her robes, the bludger-sharp wit regarding the broomstick between her legs—and reflecting on how she still has to fly twice as well as any of the boys to be considered just as good. How much it had meant to her, after her very first match, when Sheila and Maddy McKinnon from the Hufflepuff team came up to tell her how well she'd done.

She clears her throat. "They only do it because they're jealous, you know. They think that if a girl can do something as well as them, then they're not big men anymore."

Rolanda turns, very slowly, and looks at her. She rolls her eyes. "Well, I know _that_."

As Minerva watches, she lets the water pour into her cupped hands and then laps it up. The sight of that little pink tongue makes her feel quite warm.

Rolanda shuts off the tap and wipes her hands on her robes. She seems to study Minerva for a moment, and then says, "Look, would you like to kiss me?"

The question is posed so sweetly that it takes several seconds for the words to sink in. Minerva feels her eyes widening. "I...I beg your pardon?"

Part of her is fully expecting Rolanda to smirk, to laugh, to make some sign that this is yet another example of the twisted sense of fun peculiar to the Slytherin species. But Rolanda doesn't bat an eyelash, only shrugs and cocks her head so that Minerva is once more reminded of a bird of prey.

"I thought you were looking at me like you wanted to kiss me. I wouldn't mind. I want you to."

Or perhaps, Minerva considers, that last is 'I want you too.'

Either way, her mouth runs dry. She has to admit, though it's never consciously occurred to her before, that kissing Rolanda does seem an interesting prospect. But she isn't going to let herself be shown up by a slip of a Slytherin.

She wets her lips and feels heat stealing into her cheeks. "And do you always get everything you want, Miss Hooch?"

Rolanda actually seems to consider this. She frowns, looks down at her Quidditch robes, then grins, flashing pearly-white teeth. "More or less."

It only takes two cocksure strides to bring Rolanda up between Minerva's knees. She smells like sweat and leather and freshly-cut grass. Then one of her hands presses against Minerva's cheek, and she's leaning forward, and their mouths meet. Not a dry mother-kiss, not a sister-kiss, not even anything like the three clumsy kisses that Alastor Moody had given her after the Valentine's Ball. This is something new, something hot and wet, a tickling, teasing thing that makes Minerva's heart race, makes her whole body feel it when the tip of a tongue traces over her lips.

Her hands, first clenched together on her lap, venture to Rolanda's waist. Petting the jut of her hipbones. Holding her there when the kiss finally breaks.

She finds herself looking at Rolanda's peach-coloured lips curved into a little smile, and she dizzily thinks that she'd got it all backwards. You were supposed to kiss girls to practise, so that you would get it right when you found a nice boy. But as she moves in to kiss Rolanda again, she finds herself taking her lessons from what she'd fumbled through with Alastor: how to tilt her head just right so that their noses don't bump, how to breathe, how to move her lips so that she isn't sloppy.

It's frightfully sweet, something to press her body into, something to warm her blood. She feels Rolanda leaning in even closer, squirming like a trapped animal—and then freezes when she feels the top button on her robes being undone. She pulls back, and the first thing that catches her eye is her prefect's badge glinting beside Rolanda's fingers. It occurs to her how damning this would look should someone walk in. Not only to a teacher, who would surely rip the badge right off her robes for doing something so inappropriate, so irresponsible, but to any of her housemates, who would likely exile her to Hufflepuff if they caught her consorting with a _Slytherin._

There's no help for it. There's only one thing to do, and it's with great reluctance that she pulls away.

She draws her wand and twists to face the door.

"Obsero!"

The latch falls with an echoing click.

When she turns back, it's to bright eyes, pupils so wide that Minerva can see her reflection in them.

"Grand thinking," Rolanda declares, her voice unexpectedly husky, sending gooseflesh all down Minerva's arms.

_Madness_, Minerva thinks, feeling like a fever is creeping over her. Another button is opened, then another, and she gasps when Rolanda kisses the place where her breasts are pressed together. A tiny, wet lick makes her thighs tremble, and she's suddenly very aware that her legs are spread, that her knees are on either side of Rolanda's hips. Warm kisses brush the top of each breast, leaving a cool tingle behind.

Her breathing begins to stumble over itself, catching in her throat when those dear golden eyes glance up at her. She glimpses a scabbed-over cut, nearly hidden along Rolanda's hairline, and has an urge to turn the rest of the Slytherin team into haddock and feed them to the giant squid. But the idea is quickly buried beneath the wave of pleasure rolling through her body. Her hands move along Rolanda's sides until she's cupping the shallow swell of her bosom.

Minerva feels unbearably warm now, flushing in her cheeks and lips and down between her legs where everything's hot and melting. She can almost smell herself, salty and sweet, or maybe it's Rolanda. The thought is unexpectedly delicious.

It only gets better when her robes slide down her shoulders and one breast is lifted from the cup of her brassiere. Looking down makes her nibble on her lip. Her naked breast in Rolanda's hand.

Then that pink tongue darts out and makes a slow spiral to the tip of her nipple. Licks across it. Fingers stroke and pinch. Minerva fumbles with the fastenings on Rolanda's robes, wriggling her hands under the fabric until she's touching bare skin.

Rolanda looks up at her again but seems to swallow whatever words are on her tongue. She takes Minerva's other breast in hand and sucks it gently while her thumb and finger keep playing with the first. Wet, suckling—teeth at odd moments, making her jump. It's like being outside herself, or maybe that's backwards and she's more inside her skin than she's ever been before. Her quim is liquid and aching, and the pleasure in her nipples crackles like static electricity, charged by the scrape of teeth and tongue across them.

One of Rolanda's hands moves further down inside her robes, toying with the waistband of her knickers. They kiss again, and Rolanda's tongue becomes brasher, a little snake slithering over Minerva's palate and each tooth one by one. Minerva's hands cup bare breasts, experimentally squeezing. She licks up the soft moan that's hummed into her mouth. Then, cool fingers are creeping into her knickers, and the first touch is dizzying. Her hips twitch as though she's been shocked.

She has to swallow hard against crying out, her own hand fumbling through the tangle of cloth. She follows the angle of a hip around the front, down to where the soft cotton is damp and hot. Rolanda thrusts against her, sly fingers stroking her in kind, sliding slickly back and forth, moving over the spot that makes Minerva arch her back and gasp.

It's even better than when she touches herself, something she wouldn't have thought possible. A keen, reckless sensation, like diving head first towards the pitch after a missed catch. Her resolution to be quiet crumbles as Rolanda's fingertip flutters like a snitch, and she can't stop the soft sounds that slip out between breaths as the excitement crests inside her, higher and higher. A hot shudder overtakes her entire body, her toes curling up tight.

"Oh my..." she cries out, her eyes squeezing shut and her hands clutching Rolanda fiercely.

She trembles, coasting through the rush, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. And when it begins to ebb, it's a marvellously slow descent, heavy-laden with pleasure. She drifts back to herself like a falling leaf, weakly squirming away from that suddenly unbearable touch, nearly slipping into the bowl of the sink.

Rolanda's arm comes around to catch her. Her fingers leave Minerva's knickers with a firm snap of elastic, and a sticky trail smears across Minerva's belly as Rolanda removes her hand.

She watches, still breathless, as Rolanda licks her shiny fingers clean. The sight makes her own hands clench, and she realises that one is still firmly lodged between Rolanda's thighs when it earns her a roll of the hips. She clumsily separates pants from skin and slips her fingers in between. Coarse hair and soft, slick folds, and the delectably disquieting knowledge that it's not her own she's touching. She crooks her fingers and rubs as Rolanda begins moving against her.

It could have been a silly sight. Rolanda all rosy-cheeked and open-mouthed, squirming, softly hissing. But instead it's hot and arousing in a way that keeps Minerva tingling between her legs. She can feel the wetness coating her fingers as she speeds up the motion of her hand, wanting to make Rolanda feel just as stripped and raw as she had. She sees two straight front teeth bite into a lower lip and thinks of wet, dripping summer fruit. Her fingers thrum even faster, her free hand rolling Rolanda's nipple relentlessly.

A small whimper is her only warning before Rolanda suddenly stiffens, straining up on tiptoes, eyelashes fluttering. She grinds herself against Minerva's hand, panting, pressing hot kisses to her neck before sagging forward with a sigh.

Softly asking, "Will you kiss me again tomorrow, before the game?"

Her voice is low and languid.

"To wish me luck?"

Minerva's thoughts are a jumble: the wet heat around her fingers, the cooling stickiness between her own legs, a flash of voices in the corridor, the salty smell of Rolanda's pleasure. It's with dim horror that she realises what it would be like to try to fly in this condition.

Which, she supposes—drawing back to see an impish smirk and wide eyes feigning innocence—is entirely the point.

"I'll kiss you after," she says firmly. "You'll need the consolation."

And some time later, when they've disentangled themselves—washed their hands, kissed, and laughed at the absurdity of themselves—Minerva is careful to walk out of the bathroom with her head held high, even as her thighs quiver like jelly.

She smiles an unladylike smile knowing that hawk-eyes are following her every swaying step of the way.

**Author's Note:**

> A wonderful illustration by Ethelea can be found [here](http://icarusinwax.livejournal.com/59480.html).


End file.
